


War of Hearts

by sysrae



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern, Alternate Universe - Modern Thedas, Angst, F/F, Flirting, I am terrible and self-indulgent, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multi, Open Relationships, Parties, allusions to past noncon, fenris and zevran are bros with benefits, i have a lot of feelings about this, or dom/dom/sub, the author is cognisant of the dumpster in which she lies, this fic is an indulgent present to myself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-06-07 04:39:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6785590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sysrae/pseuds/sysrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Zevran and Fenris are bros with benefits, Sera is cheerfully inappropriate, and the Iron Bull is an object of elven lust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wargoddess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/gifts).



Even on a good day, Fenris Leto is five pounds of rage in a ten pound bag, but that’s why Zevran likes him. Despite their wildly different accents, they’re still mistaken for brothers often enough that Zevran has taken to thinking of Fenris as his, well – not his _evil_ twin, but certainly his tactless one. As blunt as Fenris prefers to be, he nonetheless takes a certain dry pleasure in playing social bad cop to Zevran’s good, leaving Zev free to be pithily charming while Fenris sinks his claws into every and any hapless ass who makes themselves a target.

His current prey is a well-meaning waif by the name of Merrill, whose delicate vallaslin proclaim her an actual Dalish elf, Maker help them all. Not only is she a mage opposed to registration, but there’s a pro-sanguimancy button pinned to her lapel. As small as it is, the provocative imagery draws the eye – as, indeed, it’s meant to. Front and centre is an anatomically correct heart with multi-coloured roses growing from its ventricles, ringed by the now-familiar triple slogan, rendered in pastel pink text on a black background: _Blood Is Life – Your Heart Is A Garden – Grow Yourself._

Zevran glances around the party, checking to see if anyone nearby has a sencrys with which to record the imminent bloodbath – hah! – while he gets himself a drink. Not that he doesn’t enjoy Fenris’s wit, of course; it’s just that his wineglass is tragically empty, and he’s seen this kind of argument play out often enough that he doesn’t need to stay for the finale.

Then Merrill says, in that wistful, piping voice, “Oh, but you’re elvish, too! Aren’t you at least in favour of the Cultural Exemptions Act?”

Outwardly, Zevran’s expression doesn’t so much as flicker. The same blandly attentive, mildly pleasant smile he’s maintained throughout the exchange remains intact, but inside, his stomach clenches with suppressed anger. Fenris, however, looks murderous, and _this_ is why Zevran loves him: the other elf says what Zevran barely dares to feel, and all without apology.

“I find it a strange hypocrisy,” says Fenris, in a voice of honeyed acid, “when Dalish elves, who rightly hate to be stereotyped, assume I must care for their views at all because I, too, am elvish.”

Merrill looks genuinely startled. “But the Dalish are advocates of elvish heritage! Surely you must feel some investment in –”

“ _Surely_?” Fenris snaps, cutting her off. “ _Must_? Do your politics dictate my feelings, then? Does the shape of my ears deny me a rejoinder?”

“But you have vallaslin, too!” exclaims Merrill, waving a hand at his lyrium-tattooed chin. Her brow creases in confused distress, as though she can’t possibly comprehend how the conversation has gotten away from her. “If you don’t support the Dalish, why would you –”

“I do _not_ ,” growls Fenris, “have _vallaslin_.” He slams his glass on the tabletop and claws at his high-necked jacket, almost tearing the leather as he yanks it first open and then off, baring the brilliant lines that lace his throat, arms, collarbones, hands. Merrill’s eyes, already huge in her slender face, grow huger still, like daisies before some furious sun. “You think I did this to myself? You think I wanted lyrium in my skin?”

“Oh,” she whispers, and turns beseechingly to Zevran, the line of her gaze as tangible as fingertips as she tracks his cheek tattoo.

“Nor me, either,” he says, voice light with insincere concession. He taps a finger to the marks. “This covers a scar: nothing more.”

“Oh,” she says again, visibly deflating. “But I thought –”

“They know _exactly_ what you thought, Rilly,” says Sera. She interrupts with a well-timed eyeroll, handing Zev a new, full glass of wine. “On account of how you never shut up about it. Now shove off, yeah? Give ‘em some breathin’ room. Go bother Carver, or summat.” And then, when Merrill hesitates: “Shoo! Shoo!”

“My apologies,” Merrill says, and with an odd little parting bob, she glides away from them. Zev’s anxiety eases with her absence; he lifts his new glass in salute to Sera, sips the wine and swallows.

“Your Hawke keeps interesting friends,” says Zevran, mildly. Fenris, who knows this to be as close to overt cattiness as Zev will come, snorts loudly. Zevran flashes him a grateful look, and the two share a sharp, private smile.

Oblivious, Sera wrinkles her nose. “Firstly, Carver aint Hawke, right? I mean, he’s _a_ Hawke, sure, but he’s not _Hawke_ Hawke, and as much as he hates when other people put it like that, he’ll clock you one if he thinks you’re calling him his big brother. Who’s also here, by the way, so try not to step in it too bad, or we’ll have real drama on our hands. And second, Carver’s got a soft spot for Rilly, so keep your snide quiet, yeah? Maker knows why – he’s only fucking a ruddy ex-Templar – but there you go. Humans are weird.” She pulls another face, the expression skewing into lasciviousness as she catches sight of someone over Zevran’s shoulder. “Qunari, on the other hand – _mmmm_!”    

“You have a kink,” says Fenris, matter-of-factly fond.

“What I have is functional eyes and nethers. Sue me.” She cocks her head. “What about you, Zev? You ever horny for horns? The head kind, I mean, not the regular skinbeak.”

Zevran chokes with laughter. “ _Skinbeak?_ ”  

“Dicks are skinbeaks,” Sera says, primly. “Not that I like to look at ‘em, but I calls ‘em like I sees ‘em.”

“How very evocative,” Zevran says, lips twitching as Fenris chuckles. “As to your original question, I can’t say that I’ve ever had the pleasure of a Qunari – or rather, that a Qunari has ever had the pleasure of having _me_. But now that you raise the prospect, I find myself intrigued. Do you have any recommendations?”

“Two, as it happens,” Sera says. “One, stay away from the big ladies. I saw ‘em first, yeah? No point us fightin’ over resources when you can just take the boy-types. Fair?”

“Fair,” says Zevran, gravely. “And the other thing?”

Sera smirks. “The other thing,” she says, “is that the Iron Bull is _well_ interested in the pair of you.”

“The Iron Bull?” says Fenris, raising an amused eyebrow at the name. “And who is he, when he’s at home?”

“Him,” says Sera, and points to someone Zev and Fenris both have to turn to see.

As tall as most Qunari are, this one’s taller: broad, big and behorned, with a jaunty eyepatch over one eye and a crafty look in the other.

“Strapping lad,” Fenris murmurs appreciatively. “Wouldn’t you say?”

“I certainly would,” says Zevran, equally approving. “Do you think he knows how to share?”

“I said he wanted the pair of you, didn’t I?” says Sera. “Not that he’d turn down a one on one, but he’s good with crowds. And boundaries,” she adds, gaze flicking briefly to Fenris. “For how much he puts it about, I’ve never heard a bad word said of him. Not even from Isabela, and she’s got standards. Well, bed-standards. Sort of. Like someone who knows all the posh types of wine and how to tell ‘em apart and whatever, but still enjoys proper cheap shit if it gets you pissed and doesn’t taste like feet. You know what I mean.”

“Your eloquence, as always, does you credit,” says Zevran, gaze still fixed on the enormous Qunari. Now that he’s recovered from Merrill’s assumptions, his body is remembering the more carnal hopes with which he began the night. Not that he has any complaints to levy against Fenris, but for all the times they’ve ended up in bed together, they’re housemates with occasional benefits, not true lovers. Fenris is someone he’s come to trust with every material part of himself, as Fenris trusts him in turn, but as cynical as they are, and as jaded as they appear to be, they know each other well enough to know that, deep down, they’re both romantics. Abiding friendship, domestic habituation and sexual compatibility aside, there’s no spark to work with: _platonic lifemates_ , Aveline once called them, and despite her exasperation, she wasn’t wrong.

Even so: they do make a _very_ good team, when the moment calls for it.

Fenris looks at Zevran. “Well? What do you think?”

“I’m game if you are, darling.”

He huffs a laugh. “You’re incorrigible. Shall we?”

“By all means, lead the way.”

“Thank me in the morning, yeah?” Sera cackles, slapping Zev’s ass. “You bastards owe me one!”

Zevran looks at the Iron Bull, who notices him noticing, starts, and grins. Pointedly linking arms with Fenris, Zevran winks at Sera. “You’ve got it backwards, my dear,” he says, grinning as they start to walk. “After tonight, the Iron Bull will owe you _two_.”

Her laughter follows them across the room, as bright as summer wine.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: vague reference to past noncon with Fenris/Danarius. 
> 
> Dear everyone who expected porn this chapter: HAHAHA SORRY BUT NO, HAVE SOME ANGST FIRST. I mean, have you MET me?

Once upon a time five years ago, Fenris first fell into Zevran’s bed. Literally fell: he was drunk enough to mistake his housemate’s room for his own and unsteady enough that, when he tripped on Zevran’s rug, he couldn’t right himself. He dropped into the vacant space beside Zevran like a beached porpoise, so heartstick and aching he scarcely cared where he was. For all that he’d been asleep at the time, Zev didn’t flinch: just lay there in a self-made silence, acclimating to Fenris’s sudden presence. Then:

“You know,” he said, “when I imagine you in my bed, it’s never in these conditions.”

Fenris made a noise that was raggedly close to weeping, for all it skirted laughter. “Throw me out, then.”

Beside him, Zevran shifted, propping himself on an elbow. His cornsilk hair was silver in the faded light, an echo of Fenris’s own. “Fenris? Are you well?”

“No.” Fenris shut his eyes, tears leaking out the edges as he pressed his face into the pillow. His voice was rough enough to chafe his throat. “It _hurts_.”

“The lyrium?”

His lack of answer was answer enough. Pain washed through him, a tattoo in tattoos. “I can feel him,” he croaked. “When it’s bad enough, I feel him in the lines, his hands – he liked to touch in patterns, and the lyrium remembers, cycles them through like a string of bloody codes, over and over, and it’s like – it’s like he touches me still, and I can’t shut it out. I don’t want to die like this, Zevran, I just want it to stop, but what if it never does?”

To his shame, he began to weep in earnest, curling into himself like a fern frond. He so rarely broke down like this, he’d hoped to avoid it ever happening in Zevran’s presence, but the pain had been worse than usual from the moment he woke up, and after that, things had snowballed. He tried to harden himself in anticipation of the obvious questions, the recriminations or pity or just plain revulsion, but nothing came. Zevran didn’t ask who _he_ was, just as he’d never pried about the lyrium tattoos or any one of a dozen other things. Instead, he ran a hand lightly over Fenris’s hair, palm lingering as Fenris shuddered into the contact like an injured cat.

“May I touch you?” Zevran asked.

It was, some part of Fenris rationally knew, a question relating to comfort: _do you wish to be held?_ But with the ghosts of old abuses crowding out his skin, his heart, he barely knew such kindness could be offered, let alone unselfishly.

He meant to say something else, he did, but what came out was, “Don’t fuck me. Please. Anything else you want, but don’t – not that. I can’t bear it tonight.”

Beside him, Zevran went very still. “Oh, my friend,” he said, softly. “I would not misuse you so.” And he slowly pulled Fenris into his arms, until he was cradled to Zevran’s chest, his arms around his waist.

Days later, when they did have sex, their mouths were hungry and their voices laughing, each touch smoothing over wounds inflicted by other, harsher hands, their owners relegated now to the status of banished shadows. The second time was rougher, more urgent, a thing of need; the third time was languid, a learning of skins. After that, it became companionable, and then occasional, but never exclusive. The honesty of it unstitched their secrets, and if there was ever a moment where that first unexpected intimacy might have kindled into something more, they both were content to let it pass, such potential having less value then than the need to know that one other soul existed who could be both held and shared, given freely but never taken, an anchor unmoved by caprice or cruelty.   

Fenris recalls all these things as they cross the room to the Iron Bull, whose warm smile deepens pleasingly at their approach. Unlike Zevran – and yet, somewhat paradoxically, with the exception of Zevran – Fenris isn’t fond of casual sex. He has to trust that he won’t be hurt, but you can’t ever truly trust strangers, and if he can’t trust, he can’t inhabit himself or the moment properly. Instead, he empties out, defaulting to the same abnegation he always felt with Danarius, whose marks he wears, whose name he will not speak. But Zevran craves the closeness of sex, and isn’t always discerning about how and where it happens. He hurts himself with it, if he’s not careful – sometimes on purpose and sometimes by accident, but like the legend of the man bisected by the world’s sharpest sword, he never even feels the blow until he walks home, stops, and falls apart. And so, if and when the opportunity arises, Fenris goes with him. It’s not a service, not a hardship, not pity: pragmatism, maybe, but always for pleasure.

Fenris can’t trust strangers, but he trusts Zevran. And if Zevran forgets to guard himself, then Fenris will watch his back.


	3. Chapter 3

Raised under the Qun, the Iron Bull has never known or celebrated his birthday, but as he contemplates his current double lapful of gorgeous elf, he considers declaring today an official substitute. Zevran is on his right knee, Fenris on his left, and they’re kissing each other as Bull helps himself to the sensitive skin of their ears and necks. Earlier, he’d been smitten enough by their moon-and-sun contrast to share his appreciation of it with Sera, but hadn’t figured this outcome for an actual possibility. Shit, he’d have taken either one alone, please and thank you, and filed the prospect of more away as a masturbatory fantasy. But here he is, and here _they_ are, and it’s not like he’s some awkward _bas_ in the throes of drought, but _damn_ , he wants to make this party private.

 No sooner has he had the thought than Zevran pulls back a little from Fenris, smirks, and says, in a voice intended for both of them, “There is, I believe, a vacant room upstairs.”

“Harlot,” Fenris says, wickedly pleased. He flicks his malachite gaze to Bull, a pleasurable shiver in his face as Zevran leans in and sucks at the hinge of his jaw. “Will you join us?”

“It would be my privilege,” Bull murmurs, big hands curling lightly around their (slender, muscled) waists. A glint of approval sparks in Fenris’s eye, and Bull, encouraged, chances a liberty. “You want to walk, or should I carry you?”

Fenris laughs, warm and indulgent. By way of answer, he cups Zevran’s face in his slim, brown hands and kisses him deeply, hard enough that the other elf groans. When Fenris pulls away again, Zevran is panting, honey eyes blown, and Bull damn near shudders to think what he might do with that sort of responsiveness.

“You can carry _him_ ,” says Fenris, hopping lithely off Bull’s lap. “I prefer to walk.”

“Can do,” Bull says, and swings Zevran up into a bridal carry. Zevran laughs breathlessly, looping his arms around Bull’s neck, face flushed as Bull’s quasi-asshole friends start cheering.

“So it’s to be like that, is it?” Zevran says, leaning up to kiss along Bull’s throat.

“Like what?” says Bull, staring riveted as Fenris leads them through the party, a hint of sway to his hips. It’s a kind of fearlessness seldom recognised as such, to walk as though the raucous observations of strangers are nothing but rain repelled by oilskin. A bravery more learned than inborn, in Bull’s experience.

“The two of you, colluding in my submission.” Zevran’s voice is a practised purr, but close as he is to Bull’s broad chest, the unstudied shiver of need accompanying it is unmissable.

 _Definitely my birthday_ , Bull thinks, and makes a mental note to mark the day on the calendar.

Ordinarily, having sex in someone else’s house is a thing Bull tries to avoid. For one thing, it’s basic goddamn courtesy; for another, you can’t always be sure whose rooms are whose, and whether the door will lock. But this is Sera’s place, and even if Sera hadn’t verbally given the three of them a green light, the house itself is a rookery: that one semi-disreputable, constantly-occupied sharehouse of shenanigans that invariably evolves in the presence of students, presided over by either an arch-pimp or an arch-prankster or, in the case of Sera, both.  

Odd, then, that Bull hasn’t actually fucked anyone at one of these parties before, unless you count kissing and lounge-frottage, which he doesn’t. As Fenris leads them into one of several ostensibly spare bedrooms – furnished, like the rest of the house, in a mixture of thrifty minimalism and early magpie – Bull’s mouth goes weirdly dry. He sets Zevran down as gently as possible, reaches over to lock the door, and hesitates. Catches Fenris’s eye.

“This okay?” he asks, softly. “I can leave it unlocked if you’d rather.”

Almost imperceptibly, Fenris relaxes, and it’s only then that Bull realises how tensely he holds himself. “That… won’t be necessary,” he says, after a beat. “Locked is fine.” Another pause. “But thank you for the consideration.”

Before Sera told him their actual names, when all they’d been was two pretty elves across the room, Bull had thought of Fenris and Zevran as Sharp and Sly, or maybe Salt and Silver. They move like a practised double act, but the more he sees of them, the more he realises that’s not quite right. Fenris leads, and Zevran follows: not blindly, and certainly not without comment or interjection, but he’s yet to see the dynamic flip in any meaningful way. _Sentinel and Sub_ , Bull thinks, and feels their context click into place. _Well, damn. No wonder Fenris is guarded – he’s a walking watchword._

“Mmm,” says Zevran, nimble fingers skating along the seams of Bull’s shirt, a lazy grin on his face. “Too many clothes, I think. Or do you prefer to keep them on?”

Gently, Bull scoops up Zevran’s hands and kisses the knuckles. “I prefer not to cross any limits,” he says. “Now, I’m guessing your friend here knows yours pretty damn well, but all the same, if you need to stop – if you want to stop, for any reason – you tell me _katoh_ , okay? Or do you prefer a stoplight system?” 

Zevran’s face is guileless and unchanged; his hands, though, hesitate. “Katoh will be sufficient,” he says – and then he smiles, broad and blinding. “Your manners do you credit, the Iron Bull.”

Light-footed, Fenris moves up beside them, looping his arms around Zevran’s waist to kiss his neck. In this position, he looks up at Bull from under his lashes, the coquettish expression clashing with his serious tone.

“No belittlement, no abuse. You can feminise Zev if you wish, but try it on me, and this ends. Light restraint is fine, but nothing in his mouth that isn’t a cock and nothing around my ankles, period. I’ll stoplight if I need to, but if I yellow, stop touching me altogether. Do we have an accord?”

“We do,” says Bull. And then, because it’s been a long damn time since he scened with another dom who wasn’t looking to sub for a night and Fenris deserves the courtesy, “My right knee is fucked, so try not to stress it. And if you’re gonna make sudden moves, I’d appreciate you keeping clear of my blindside.”

Fenris smiles, inclines his head gravely. “Of course.”

“Yes, yes,” Zevran says, waving a careless hand, “we are all responsible, sensible men who – ah!” He goes silent and pliant both as Fenris gently bites his throat, head tipping back against the other elf’s shoulder.

“Behave, you miscreant,” Fenris murmurs, nimbly unbuttoning his shirt. “We have company.”

 “Mmm,” agrees Zevran, eyes fluttering shut as Fenris strips him, belt unbuckled from behind, shoes kicked away and pants removed, until he’s wholly naked, trembling between them. His cock is as pretty as the rest of him, slender and hard, and there’s a tiny gold hoop through each of his nipples.

“Damn, you’re gorgeous,” Bull says, giving the nearest hoop a gentle, experimental tug. Zevran whines, but before he can reach out for Bull, Fenris takes hold of each of his wrists and pulls his hands behind his back, pinning them there as he picks up Zevran’s discarded belt.

“Ah-ah,” Fenris chides, grinning at Bull as he cinches Zevran’s wrists together. “Where are your manners? You know better than to grab. Guests first.”

“Very nice,” Bull says, and – again, chancing a liberty – leans in to kiss Fenris over Zevran’s shoulder. Fenris responds with enthusiasm, pressing himself against Zev’s back without letting go of the belt, preventing him from frotting against Bull. Zevran moans at that, the noise turning louder as Bull puts a hand on his hip and squeezes, an experiment in pressure.

“Oh,” Zevran gasps, “oh – oh – please –”

Bull breaks the kiss to watch as Fenris teases a fingertip along Zev’s length, the blonde elf bucking into the touch, spine bowed, throat bared.

“Will you be good for us, then?”

“Always,” Zev says, and damned if he doesn’t set about proving it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this chapter sitting around almost since I posted the last one, unposted because I thought it was going to be longer, but on reflection I guess I'm going to switch POV, so! Have some sexy cliffhangery torment :)

**Author's Note:**

> Sencrys = sending crystal, because Modern Thedas equivalent of an iPhone, obviously  
> Sanguimancy = blood magic, because I'm a dork  
> Skinbeak = I'M NOT EVEN SORRY OKAY, IT'S WHAT THEY FUCKING LOOK LIKE
> 
> Title from Ruelle's War of Hearts. By reading this, you waive all rights to judge me.


End file.
